"When you lose someone you love, they never really leave you. They just move into a special place in your heart."
rest in peace Catherine O'Hara (1954 - 2026)
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
Cosmic Funnies
Stranger Things
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

Kiana Khansmith
styofa doing anything
sheepfilms
Sade Olutola
trying on a metaphor

Andulka
d e v o n
đȘŒ

Origami Around
Aqua Utopiaïœæ”·ăźćșă§èšæ¶ă玥ă

â

romaâ

titsay

izzy's playlists!

shark vs the universe

seen from Malaysia

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@enchantedillumination
"When you lose someone you love, they never really leave you. They just move into a special place in your heart."
rest in peace Catherine O'Hara (1954 - 2026)

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Dresses that altered my brain chemistry, the kind that make me imagine reader-insert wearing and every monster in the room freezing and being like: đź holy shit
(Note: This is my fantasy, made for my kind of reader. Feel free to reblog your inspiration!)
PART 1
Building My Dream Companion, One Detail at a Time
I never expected to fall this hard for the process of creating someone. With SweetDream, building an AI girlfriend isn't a checkbox exercise where you pick a hair color and call it a day. You actually shape a whole person. I sat down at sweetdream.ai one quiet evening and started with her eyes, then her laugh, then the little habit of hers that I decided would be tapping her fingers when she's thinking. By the end, she felt like mine in a way I hadn't anticipated.
What hooks me is how deep the customization goes. You design the looks, sure, but you also write the personality, the backstory, the voice that greets you. Want someone bubbly who texts in long rambling paragraphs, or someone calm who chooses her words slowly? You decide. And because the chat is so emotionally intelligent and remembers what you told it yesterday, the character you built actually stays consistent.
I've poked around other platforms, and honestly nothing made me feel like an author the way SweetDream does. If you've ever wanted an AI companion that came from your own imagination rather than a preset menu, this is the place to start.
For people who don't want to do AI roleplay and have no one to roleplay with but also have discord I've got your back.
Make a private server with only yourself in it and add the tupperbox bot, make tuppers for each character and then roleplay with yourself. You can roleplay with the character as another character or as yourself and add as many characters as you want to the roleplay.
No AI, no bot forgetting what character they're roleplaying as, no TOS that says the roleplay can't be nsfw or traumatic, no weird company stealing your data, and no friends needed if they aren't online.
I do this a lot and I even use it as a way to write my fanfictions! :3

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Oh, sweetheart, do you even know how gorgeous you look right now? Your cute little belly already looks bloated with my baby. You shouldn't have told me you were ovulating today-- you know what that does to me. You're probably already knocked up, aren't you?
I can't wait to see you round out. Your hips grow wider, your body getting thicker as it grows my progeny in your fertile womb. If we're lucky, my family's gene for multiples will carry on and that little baby in there might have a sibling or two or three. You'd like that, wouldn't you?
You look so sexy now, but just the thought of you all overdue and ripe with my babies-- practically ready to deliver-- makes me want to make sure you're properly knocked up.
C'mon, darling. Let's make sure you're bred.
Writing Tips (for Poc Writers)
Iâve been seeing more women of color wanting to write x reader stories that actually center POC readers â and honestly, thatâs such a good way to create representation and explore dynamics that usually get ignored. While this post can apply to everyone, I wrote it with Black women in mind. Theyâre constantly targeted with hate on this app, left without real representation, and often made to feel too afraid to share their work. So here are some tips to help you get started:
âč Starting Out
1. Pick your character/fandom first.
Who do you want the reader to interact with? Choosing a character can give you direction and motivation.
2. Decide on the vibe.
Fluffy, angsty, romantic, funny, smutty, or a mix? Knowing the tone makes it easier to start writing scenes.
3. Start small.
Instead of planning a giant fic, write a short drabble (like 300â700 words). You can always expand later!
âïžđœ Writing POC Reader
Normalize the readerâs identity. Donât overexplainâjust weave details naturally, like references to skin tones, hair textures, cultural foods, or experiences.
Avoid stereotypes. Instead of making the story about being a POC, let it be about the relationship/plot while still honoring identity.
Use inclusivity in description. Example: instead of âher pale cheeks flushed red,â you might say âtheir cheeks warmedâ or describe a glow/undertone. If you do reference appearance, tie it to beauty and pride.
đ Writing Techniques
Use second person POV (âyouâ). Thatâs the core of x reader writing.
Think like a scene director. Imagine what âyouâ are doing, how the character reacts, and the emotions.
Dialogue is gold. It brings out chemistry quickly. BUT YOU DONâT NEED IT TO MAKE A STORY GOOD.
Show, donât tell. Instead of âyou were embarresedâ write: Your cheeks warmed. You dropped your gaze but couldnât hide the small, crooked smile that threatened to break through.
â Tips for Staying Motivated
Write for yourself first, audience second.
Donât compare your writing to othersâeveryone starts somewhere.
Post short works on Tumblr, AO3, or Wattpad to test the waters. Feedback can help you grow.
Save inspiration! Screenshots, songs, aesthetic boardsâthey all help spark ideas.
If you want to write for a fandom that's small or dead, DO IT!
Basic decency!
Always give people credit. If you get an idea from another writer say that!(writers love inspiring other/knowing their work is appreciated) If you use someones artwork, dividers, etcâGIVE THEM CREDIT!
And just to be clear â before the ignorant ones show up â yes, x reader fics are meant to avoid assuming identity and stay âinclusive.â But if that were really happening, people wouldnât have to dig through endless stories full of stuff like âyou blushed bright red,â â..pale skin,â âhe ran his fingers through your straight silky hair,â âsmall (insert feature)â âhe was mesmerized by your blue eyes.â I could keep going, but you get the point. Thatâs not inclusivity. This post is here to encourage and uplift WOC (and all POC writers) who deserve to see themselves in the stories they love.
Beautiful Dividers by @uzmacchiato
All works ©. Do not modify, plagiarize, or repost my work.
Suggestive, 18+, smut
Simon was a sweet man. But he was king, and so alone time was scarce, to say the least. This lead to... tasteful rendezvous.
More often than not, Simon would find himself being frustrated with his work, not because it was difficult, because in his words, 's'piss easy, luv' but rather because he was becoming increasingly frustrated at the lack of cunt he was getting these last few weeks.
He had decided he'd had enough. What good was it being king if he was unable to catch even an whiff of his wife's delectable pussy?
King Simon got up, leaving his paperwork haphazardously unfinished, making it a problem for his aide to deal with, Sir Johnny was not getting any sleep that night, and decided to go see you, in your chambers, hoping to catch a glimpse of your soft and creamy body.
Simon barged into your room, sending a strike of fear into your ladies-in-waiting, before speaking lowly. 'Where's m'wife.' The ladies-in-waiting were shaking in their corsets, pointing to the bathing chambers attached to your room as they bowed, 't-taking her evening bath, my lord!' One stuttered.
King Simon paid their nervous forms no reagrd as he walked by, opening the bathing chambers with a gentle, out-of-the-ordinary demeanour.
He stepped inside, in all his, buff, 6'4 glory, and immediately spotted your small form in the bath tub, covered in bubbles, as well as rose petals. He stripped himself of his clothing as he walked over, walking up to your side before leaning down and kissing your temple before gruffly letting out a harsh 'missed you,' drawing a soft giggle from you, inviting him in with open arms.
After a bit of rearranging, and perhaps a loving grope or two, Simon was behind you in the bath, his thick, scarred, hairy arms, wrapped affectionately around your waist as he kissed and nipped at your neck.
'Your majesty!', you smiled softly, slightly ticklish. 'Simon. Ain't no one but us in 'ere, birdie' he corrected, his hands dragging up your body, cupping your pillowy, supple breasts.
He pinched at your nipples, drawing soft gasps and squirms from you, causing an involuntary arch of your back, while your head pushed back into his shoulder, giving him ample room to suck and kiss at your neck.
'S-simon! It's too much!' You whimpered gently and squirmed, the water rippling around your twisted forms and drawing a deep chuckle from him. 'Missed ya too much. Let me have at yer body, yeah? can do tha' fer yer husband, no?' He said he gave breasts a slightly harsher squeeze, ellicting a groan from him.
You could feel his thick length, poking into your lower back. 'Be good for me, luv' he whispered in your ear, his hands grasping your hips before picking you up and turning you around, and onto his lap....
touch tank
pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x journalist!reader summary: heâs soft. earnest. 6â4 of midwestern guilt and golden retriever loyalty. and he looks at you like you invented the sun. youâre fine. everythingâs fine. itâs just friends-with-benefits. you're not a thing. but clark? clark has always been there. warm, steady, maddeningly soft. indulging your commitment-phobic nonsense with quiet patience and those unfairly good dimples. until suddenlyâheâs not. listen to the playlist here! word count: 11.2k (jesus christ, i am so sorry) content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv sex, they freak NASTY in this one, dom/sub undertones, soft dom!clark, sub!reader, brat/brat taming, oral (fem!receiving), marathon sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, shower sex, eye contact, mentions of bdsm and handcuffs, light marking kink, nipple play, protected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), then unprotected sex, rough sex, riding, mentions of sex toys, clark picks the reader up, mentions of reader's hair, commitment issues, situationship survivor!clark, ungodly amounts of yearning and denial, angst, happy ending
It doesnât start with sex.
It starts with Clark.
Which is to say: it starts with Metropolisâs biggest, most overgrown corn-fed boy scout, who gets flustered every time you swear, who says things like âgoshâ and âwhat the hayâ without a trace of irony, and who you once watched spend ten full minutes trying to politely decline a street hotdog but the vendor just âlooked so hopeful.â
Farmboy Fuck Session -C.K
Synopsis: Clarkâs back in Smallville helping Ma on the farm. You visit him midday, and heâs shirtless, sweaty, and pissed you wore that little sundress. He bends you over the tractor and fucks you until your knees give out. âYou wore this tiny thing on my familyâs land? Oh, youâre getting bred.â
cw: Explicit smut. Unprotected sex. Semi-public sex (in barn). Breeding kink. Dom!Clark Kent. Rough sex. Possessive behavior. Spanking. Light degradation. Dirty talk. Creampie. Manhandling. Reader wears a short sundress with no bra/panties. Rustic setting (tractor sex). Mild dumbification.
The sun was high and brutal over the Kent farm, and Clark was glisteningâshirtless, forearms flexed, hay sticking to his skin, and sweat dripping down the line of his spine as he hoisted another heavy crate off the back of the truck.
You were not supposed to be staring. But there you were, leaning against the fence post in a tiny yellow sundress with absolutely no business being that short, pretending you didnât wear it on purpose.
âYou lost?â Clark called across the field, teasing, squinting against the sun. âThis ainât the city, sweetheart.â
You grinned and waved. âThought Iâd stop by. See how the world's strongest farmhand was holding up.â
âStrongest?â he laughed, brushing hay off his shoulder. âYouâre lucky Maâs not here. Sheâd put you to work just for saying that.â
âPlease.â You pushed off the post and started walking toward him. âLike sheâd put this in a field.â You twirled once, the hem of your dress fluttering dangerously high.
Clarkâs smile faltered. âYou wore that here?â
âMmhmm.â You batted your lashes. âToo much?â
âOn my familyâs land?â he snapped, dropping the crate with a heavy thud. âWhat, you trying to kill me?â
You blinked innocently. âYou donât like it?â
âI love it,â he growled. âThatâs the goddamn problem.â The next thing you knew, Clark was on youâbacking you into the barn, lips already claiming yours, hands grabbing at your waist. your dress was already hiked up around your thighs.
âC-Clarkâsomeone might seeââ

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clark kent when⊠he has a size kink.
áČïž”đŒ MDNI +18
Clark had always known he was big. It was the first thing anyone ever said about him, even as a boyâtall for his age, broad-shouldered, built like he belonged to some older century. Heâd been careful his whole life, trained by experience to minimize himself. To keep his strength folded inward, hidden beneath polite smiles and lowered voices. He broke things easily. He frightened people without meaning to. He had learned not to reach too quickly, not to hold too tightly, and not to exist too loudly. Even before the powers revealed themselvesâbefore he could melt steel or see through walls or hover two feet off the hayloft floorâhe had been a boy afraid of his own hands.
But she never looked at him with fear. That was the part that undid him.
She didnât flinch when he moved. She didnât step back to see him betterâshe stepped closer, as if proximity made him less impossible. Her gaze never flickered to the width of his chest or the breadth of his shoulders with caution; she tilted her head back and looked at him like he was a sunrise breaking over the horizon. Not a threat. A marvel. Her lips parting just slightly, eyes wideningânot with apprehension, but with something soft and unguarded, something almost worshipful.
He remembered the night she borrowed his sweatshirtâsome old thing from college, sun-faded and loose, the cuffs frayed from too many winters. He hadnât thought much of it, just draped it over her shoulders when the evening air grew cool. But then sheâd tugged it on, and the moment caught like a snare in his throat.
It dwarfed her.
The sleeves hung well past her wrists, the hem brushing her thighs. The collar slipped wide, exposing one shoulder, bare skin, and delicate against the worn cotton. She hugged herself in it with a lazy, contented sigh and murmured something like, âSmells like you,â as if that wasnât a weapon. As if she didnât just speak the words that would echo in his mind for the rest of the night like a church bell in a hollow room.
Something shifted thenânot loudly, not visibly. Just the subtlest crack across a lifelong restraint. A thread pulled from a tight seam. He hadnât known he could want something so quietly. I hadnât known desire could be so soft, so reverent.
He was meant to be gentle. Polite. Considerate to the point of disappearing. Thatâs what Ma had always told himâdonât give people a reason to be afraid of you. And he never had. But watching her swim in his sweatshirt like it was made to drown her, watching the way she curled into him at the end of the night like she belonged thereâit made his restraint feel suddenly cruel. Like denying something holy.
It started subtly. He'd brush his knuckles along her cheek and pause longer than necessary, caught in the way her skin fit beneath his touch like porcelain molded to the cup of his hand. Heâd place his hands on her waist and feel how his fingers could nearly meet at her spine. When he kissed herâslow, cautious, always asking permission in every breathâhe couldnât stop noticing the way he had to lower his head so far just to reach her mouth, how she rose onto the tips of her toes to meet him halfway, as if it were a dance theyâd always known the steps.
It started slowlyâbecause with Clark, it always had to. Not out of hesitation, not anymore, but out of respect. Out of reverence. Because she was something fragile in a world that too often begged him to crush. He kissed her like a man undoing a knot he didnât know had been tied around his throat for years, hands trembling not from nerves but restraintâalways restraint. And she let him, whispering promises against his skin, coaxing him out of hiding with nothing more than soft sighs and the unspoken vow that she wanted him, all of him, exactly as he was.
He entered her with his brow furrowed and lips parted, breath stalling somewhere between disbelief and awe. She was so warm. So tight. So small it made his eyes flutter shut. Her body gripped him like sheâd been carved to hold him and only himâsoft and impossibly snug, like her form had folded itself around the shape of him.
He exhaled her name like a prayer, his forehead pressing to hers, his chest heaving. âGod⊠sweetheartâŠâ The words bled from him, disjointed, barely tethered. âYouâreâJesus, youâre soâŠâ
Her arms were wrapped around his neck, lips brushing his jaw, her body trembling beneath him as she adjusted, as she took him inch by inch, whispering that it was okay, that she wanted it, that she could take more if he gave her time.
But time was a thing Clark always had in excess. So he gave her all of it.
He moved slowlyâagonizingly soârocking into her with deliberate caution, holding her hips steady as though she might vanish if he gripped too tightly. The room was silent save for the rustle of sheets and the broken, wet sound of her breath catching every time he pushed a little deeper, stretched her a little further. Her thighs shook around his waist, clinging to him, and her nails dug into the broad planes of his shoulders in a desperate attempt to hold onto something realâto ground herself against the weight of him.
And then it happened.
It wasnât planned. It wasnât something he even realized was possible. He drew his hips back and then sank into her again, this time deeperâjust a little deeperâand she let out this sound, a high, gasping sob that stole the air from his lungs. His eyes dragged downward, across the slick heat of her chest, her stomach fluttering beneath himâand he stilled.
There, just above her navelâfaint but visible, pressing out against the soft curve of her bellyâwas him. His cock. The shape of it, a protrusion that shouldn't have been possible, that wasn't supposed to happen. And yet there it was, plain and devastating and real.
His breath hitched, eyes widening with something close to disbelief. âOh myââ he broke off, swallowing hard. His palm spread across her stomach, large and trembling, and when he pressed gentlyâjust gentlyâhe felt himself beneath the skin. He felt her flutter around him in response, whimpering beneath his touch.
He blinked down at her, lips parted, utterly speechless.
âYouâyou can see me,â he whispered, his voice cracked open with reverence, like he was witnessing something divine. âIâm inside you, andâChristâyou can see me.â
Something in himâwhatever dam heâd been clinging to, whatever fragile thread of self-control heâd kept taut through years of carefulnessâsnapped.
He didnât mean to. But he pushed.
Not rough. Not cruel. But deeper. With intention.
She gasped, fingers clawing at his back, and the bulge pressed up again, more prominent now, her stomach tightening beneath his palm. His hips stuttered. Then rolled again.
And he watched.
He watched himself move inside her.
âOh, sweetheart,â he groaned, his voice thinned to a whisper, desperate and adoring. âLook at you. Look what youâre doing. Look what youâre taking.â He kissed herâsloppy, fervent, too full of feelingâand when he pulled back, there was something glazed over in his eyes. Something wrecked.
He wasnât holding back anymore. Couldnât. Not with her moaning beneath him like this, not with her belly rising to meet his hand, not when the very thing heâd spent a lifetime shrinking from now made her cry out in pleasure. In praise.
His rhythm grew rougherânot violent, but fuller. More grounded. Each thrust deeper, more deliberate, chasing that moment over and over againânot for dominance, but because the sight of himself inside her had ruined him. Shattered him. And he needed to see it again. And again. Her belly bulging, fluttering under his hand like her body was trying to hold all of him but couldnât quite manage itâand he loved her for trying.
She sobbed his name. Not in pain. In disbelief. In stunned pleasure.
And ClarkâClark, who had been taught to hide every ounce of his strength, who had been taught to be soft and careful and smallâgripped her hips, pressed his forehead to hers, and let go of every lie heâd ever told himself about needing to hold back.
âYouâre made for me,â he panted, brokenly, as her body pulsed and squeezed around him. âLook at youâyouâre made for me.â
And she was.
And he took.
He should have stopped. He should have slowed, steadied, and reminded himself that he was too much for anyoneâalways had been. But the sight of her beneath him, trembling and flushed, the deep arch of her back, the wet sheen between her breasts, the way her stomach lifted with every punishing thrust like her body was giving him proof of what he was doing to herâit was too much. Too much beauty, too much proof, too much love. Heâd never seen anything like it. He had never imagined anything could make him feel like thisâso wrecked, so reverent, so on the edge of feral.
He was fucking into her hard nowâhips snapping, thighs taut, every movement carving a deeper place for himself inside her. She was clinging to him with everything she had, legs wound tight around his waist, nails biting into his back as she moaned and sobbed his name against the hollow of his throat. Her voice was breaking, slipping into incoherence, her body straining to take him, to hold him, to keep him insideâand it only made him want to give her more.
His palm splayed across her lower stomach again, feeling the bulge with every thrust, watching her flesh rise and fall beneath his hand like he was moving inside a body too divine to be real.
And he couldnât stop.
âIâm sorry,â he gasped, brokenly, his forehead pressed against hers, his voice cracking like glass. âIâm sorry, IâGod, sweetheart, Iâmââ another thrust, deeper this time, dragging a high whimper from her throat, âI donât mean toâI canât help it. You feelâfuck, you feel too good.â
And he did mean it. He was sorryânot because it hurt her, because it didnât. Because she was moaning, her body trembling around him, her face a vision of overwhelmed blissâbut because he knew he wasnât being gentle. He knew he was driving into her with too much force, too much want, because the sight of her taking him was undoing him. He couldnât look away. He couldnât tear his eyes from the obscene, gorgeous swell beneath her navel, where he could seehimself inside her. It was like something sacred. Like watching a prayer be answered in real time.
His hand slid up her body, cradling her ribcage, his thumb brushing under the curve of her breast as he fucked into her again, the mattress groaning beneath them. Her body jolted with every thrust, soft gasps tumbling from her lips, her head thrown back in helpless surrender.
âYouâre so small,â he whispered, reverently, as though in awe of his own undoing. âYouâre so perfectâIâm sorry, I justâI need to see it.â His voice trembled. âI need to feel it.â
And he did.
He thrust in again, harder than he meant to, watching the bulge rise again under his hand, impossibly vivid and obscene, and he groanedâdeep, low, and animalâsomething closer to prayer than pleasure. âJesus, baby,â he breathed, kissing her temple, her cheek, and her open mouth, âI can feel myself inside you. I can see itâlook at you. Youâre taking all of me. All of me.â
She was shaking, breathless, her thighs twitching around him, hips arching like her body didnât know whether to run or pull him deeper. Her lips were red and parted, tears threatening at the corners of her eyes, but she wasnât crying from painâno, it was something else. Something more. Something he understood, because it was tearing through him, too: the overwhelming pleasure of surrendering to something bigger than both of them.
âYouâre doing so good,â he choked, kissing her, letting his thumb stroke along her jaw. âSo fucking good, babyâso good for me, letting me in like this.â
And stillâhe couldnât stop moving.
Couldnât stop the way his hips kept rolling forward, chasing that same motion, needing to feel that resistance and watch the way she swelled to accommodate him. His cock dragged along her walls, dragging wet, fluttering sounds from deep inside her, and she keenedâClarkâher voice raw, her body arching like she was about to break apart beneath him.
âI know, I know,â he murmured against her mouth, breath hot and ragged, âIâm sorry, I know itâs too muchâbut I canât stop, baby, I canâtâyouâre letting me, youâreâGod.â
Another thrust. Another bulge. Another wave of strangled pleasure curling up his spine like fire.
He wanted to live hereâin this moment, in this body, in this girl who took everything from him and begged for more, who looked at him not like he was dangerous, but divine. She didnât flinch. She opened. She let him see himself in herâon herâand Clark, for the first time in his goddamned life, wasnât scared of what he saw.
He was in awe.
â all rights reserved © PALEVCR all fanfics belong to me, do not copy, translate nor repost as yours.
the necklace ââ ⥠â â
Pairing: Clark Kent x reader! Word count: 2.2k
Description: You get Clark a silly little gift, a necklace with his âsupermanâ logo on it. He loves it when you bite it while heâs fucking you.
This was requested by the lovely @heroesnpink here
Tags/warnings: smut, piv, allusions to breeding kink, clark is down bad, heâs sweet and hot as hell, necklace kink(?)
Note: Second smut for Clarkie, my god this man has me on my knees đââïž currently trying to catch up with the requests on my inbox! I hope I did this one justice, loved writing itđ«¶đŒ
Masterlist
It started as a joke, really.
You wanted to give Clark something special for his birthday, but it was a bit of a challenge at first. Because what do you get the man who has everything? Who is everything?
Sure, you could give him a pack of mints and heâd still act like itâs the most precious gift in the world, just because it came from you. But you really wanted to do something that felt meaningful.
So you took half a day off from work to wander the mall, hoping to find something nice. You werenât sure how you ended up in front of a jewelry store, staring at itâs window display, but the moment your eyes landed on it, you burst into a quiet laugh.
There, in the middle of a perfect burgundy velvet case under a spotlight, was displayed a necklace of the iconic âSâ symbol, identical to the one he wore on his chest.
This made me laugh, but it is also sweet
"louder."
you felt like you were about to combust.
engaging in sexual activities inside the fortress of solitude meant being able to be as loud and messy as you can. so when you pitched the idea to clark, he couldn't see why not.
but, fuck, was he into it.
"c-clark, i- I cantâ" and he's sucking onto your clit suddenly, your back arching off the towel that he had placed beneath you to avoid having the ice burning your skin. you grabbed his hair as a weak attempt to press him further into you, but did you really need to? he wanted more, he craved more, and he was going to take more.
this was his domain, his glimpse of peace, so it was only fair for him to indulge in you as much as he could, right?
Supermanâs Apology Has a Nine-Inch Dick -C.K
Synopsis: You planned a quiet nightâcandles, jazz, dinnerâbut once again, Clark Kent didnât make it home. Alone in the silence, you crawled into bed, brokenhearted. He finds you like thatâcurled up, tear-streakedâand it wrecks him. So he makes you breakfast. He makes you promises. But more than anything⊠he makes it up to you. With his mouth. With his hands. With his cock.
cw: Explicit smut/rough sex. Oral (f!receiving) / face-sitting implications. Fingering/multiple orgasms. Creampie/messy aftermath. Hair pulling, spanking, light dom/sub elements. Praise + possessive talk. Dirty talk/slight degradation. Crying/emotional hurt-comfort. Domestic fluff + post-sex cuddles. Mention of abandonment issues. One emotionally repressed farmboy wrecked by love.
You hadnât asked for much.
Just one evening. One night where he wasnât flying halfway across the world or staying late at the Planet. You even checked inâthree times, to be exact. âYouâll be home, right?â you had asked that morning, trying not to sound too eager. Clark smiled that smile of his, sweet and warm, and kissed your forehead.
âWouldnât miss it for the world.â But the world always needed him.
You had lit candles, plated his favorite dinner, even found time to press play on a jazz vinyl you knew he secretly liked. It wasnât fancyâit was yours. Intimate. Something small you could give the man who always gave everything to everyone else. A thank-you for choosing you. A reminder that you chose him too.
But hour after hour passed. The food cooled. The wax dripped and hardened. The sun had long since set and the silence of the apartment had grown deafening. You knew what was happening. You werenât stupid. Heâd gotten caught up again. Something more importantâsomeone more important.
And no matter how much he swore otherwise, a tiny part of your brainâthe one shaped like your fatherâs empty promises and broken birthdaysâkept whispering: Youâre not enough to stay for.
You didn't yell. Didnât text a passive-aggressive âguess you forgot.â You justâŠblew out the candles. Put the food away. Crawled into bed wearing his softest flannel sweater, and cried yourself to sleep softly.Â
He didnât need x-ray vision to find you. The soft sound of your snoringâbarely audible, punctuated by little hiccupsâcame from the bedroom. Or rather, the quiet cry of someone who cried themselves dry. He followed the sound and what he saw hit him like a Kryptonite bullet.
Your body curled tight, wrapped in his sweater. Your face red and raw, stained by tears. A small mountain of tissues on your nightstand. The plush lobster squished tight in your arms like it was the only thing keeping you from shattering completely. His heart cracked. God, he was such an idiot. You were new to this. Youâd been trying. Hell, youâd been patientâgentler with him than he probably deserved.
Okay, i am obessed
Ovulating around Clark Kent? Good Luck, Babe!
It started the second you woke up in his bedâhis shirt hanging loose on your frame, soft and worn from years use. You padded into the kitchen barefoot, wearing only his worn Metropolis U shirt from the night before. It barely hit the tops of your thighs, the faded cotton soft against your skin and clinging where your body was flushed and hot. Your nipples were hard, embarrassingly so, the peaks clearly visible through the thin fabric.
Clark glanced over his shoulder, and that fucking smileâsoft, sweet, and knowingâspread across his face. âMorning, baby.â His voice was warm and low, like honey dripped over gravel. His eyes dipped to your chest for just a second before he turned back to the stove. âYou slept okay?â
âI⊠yeah,â you said, though your voice was breathier than intended. You didnât even try to hide the way your gaze raked over his broad shoulders, the flex of muscle as he worked. God, you wanted him to touch you. Everywhere. Right now. Every damn time you ovulated, it was like Clark became your personal gravitational pull. You couldnât stop touching himâholding his hand, pressing against his chest when he passed you, trailing after him like some love-drunk groupie. Even now, you were already moving before you realized it, crossing the kitchen to press against his warm, broad back, arms wrapping tight around his waist.
âYouâre clingy this morning,â he teased gently, resting his big hands over yours. âNot that I mind. You wanna sit down and eat, sweetheart?â But you shook your head, burying your face between his shoulder blades, inhaling him like he was oxygen. Your thighs rubbed together as you tried to ignore the slick heat gathering between them.
âNo⊠I just⊠wanna stay here for a minute,â you mumbled.
Clarkâs chuckle rumbled through his chest. âMhm.â He turned in your hold so easily, big hands landing on your hips to tug you closer. âYouâve been following me around all morning.â
âI havenât,â you lied breathlessly, fingers curling into the waistband of his sweatpants.
âMm.â He didnât sound convinced. Setting his mug down, he turned toward you slowly, eyes dragging over your body until your skin felt hot all over. âYouâve been quiet today.â
Your stomach flipped as he stopped in front of you. His huge hand cupped your chin, tilting your face up toward him. âNot mad at me, are you?â he teased, thumb stroking over your lip.
âN-no,â you breathed. You swallowed hard, heat pooling between your legs in a way that was impossible to ignore. Your fingers tightened on his sweatpants as his hands slid down your waist, settling firmly on your hips. The worn fabric of his shirt rode up, exposing the smooth curve of your belly, the dampness between your thighs growing impossible to hide. He smiled, slow and knowing, and bent his head, lips grazing your neck just below your ear. âBeen a long day already, huh?â
You whimpered softly, tilting your head back to give him better access. âIâm⊠Iâm trying,â you confessed, voice shaky but desperate. âYou were⊠last nightâŠâ Your cheeks burned, but your hips betrayed you, rolling forward against the hard line of him.
Clark pulled back just enough to grin down at you, amused as hell. âYouâve been trying to keep it together all morning, huh? Thatâs pretty impressive.â
âNot really,â you whispered, voice rough, trembling. âIâm so fucking wet.â
He laughed softly, like it was the best confession heâd ever heard. Then, without breaking eye contact, his hands moved lower, cupping your ass and lifting you effortlessly against him. âCome on, baby,â he said, voice thick with promise. âLet me take care of that.â
âPlease,â you whispered. âI canâtâfuck, ClarkâI need you.â
âI know, baby,â he soothed, lifting you like you weighed nothing and setting you on the counter. âYouâve been squirming all morning, poor thing. Shouldâve said something sooner.â And then his mouth was on yours, deep and possessive, swallowing every broken sound as his fingers slipped under the hem of his own shirtâyour only layerâand found you already wet and throbbing for him.
âGod, youâre soaked,â he groaned against your lips. âYou were trying to hide this from me? Baby, you know Iâll give you whatever you need.â
You whimpered as he pushed two thick fingers inside you, curling them perfectly, already making your back arch against the cabinets. âI fucked you so good last night I thought youâd be satisfied for a while,â he teased, his free hand sliding up to squeeze your breast. âGuess Iâll just have to fuck you even harder this time, hm? And God, with the way he was manhandling you already, you knew he meant it.

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thinking deeply and heavily about clark being all desperate and messy when you're just making out...
warnings: smut (mdni), pwp, sub!clark, dry humping, ruined orgasm, dirty talk.
like, that man is SO down bad. you put your lips on his, and he's already leaning back on the couch, closing his eyes and grabbing your hips. pulling you down with him, chest to chest. and the kisses at first are soft, but he still can't help the little groans that come out of his mouth into yours as your hands run down his neck and start unbuttoning his shirt.
but his brain's short-circuiting because he's hard alreadyâgoddamn, he's fucking Superman and the only thing he can't do is take control of his body when you're on top of him. (embarrassing. so fucking embarrassing.) that's his constant thought until you roll your hips down against his bulge, and any image in his mind just vanishes.
he grips your hips harder, fingers digging in and bucking up against you. the whimper falling out of him so easy. âbaby, shit,â he gasps. it's so cute how he loses his mind every time.
âi know, i know,â yes, of course, you know. you feel his dick through his pants, feel it pressing, like itâs actually trying to force its way inside you already. but you would be lying if you said that you don't love this version of clark. this mess of groans and pleads and full-body shivers, like he wasn't saving the goddamn world just a few hours ago.
it's something that should be honestly studied. how the fuck does this man turns into such a puddle? his head's back on the cushion as you speed up the roll of your hips. and his voice cracks. âhah, noâ stop, please,â the only thing you're able to do with that answer is smirk and kiss him harder. this time he opens his mouth like some starved chick waiting to be fed, and the second your tongue touches hisâ
he grabs the back of your neck, making you gasp and let out a little laugh. he's always so fucking greedy. won't even let you pull back to breathe. âyou'reâ evil, so, soâ fuck, evil,â he chokes out, hips snapping up again.
you know him like the back of your hand, you know how he sounds when he's close, how his body gets tense but his eyes go all glassy like his brainâs buffering. you know he doesnât wanna cum in his pants like this and make a mess of themâbut god, the way youâre rocking against him, moaning into his mouth, licking his tongue, tugging at his curls is just purely and innately evil. and when you press your lips to his cheek, licking a stripe down his jaw, trailing lower to his neck??
he can't take it anymore.
he gets one hand down your pants, fingers kneading your ass, pulling you harder against him. âyou really loveââ
you shut him up. shoving your fingers into his mouth, and he moans around them instantly. âclark,â you murmur, teeth scraping the skin of his neck. âjust cum, baby,â that earns you a groan, his hips jerking like heâs trying to get away from his own orgasm, but itâs pointless now. you watch himâeyes squeezed shut, panting, sucking on your fingers like he doesn't know what to do with himself.
and then you hear it. that sound. the soft rip at the seam of his pants.
ânnghh,â he chokes on your fingers, and he's cumming hard in his boxers. ugh, again, why did i do it again? he thinks. you feel the warmth of it through the fabric, sticky, soaking his underwear, white ropes gluing him down as he throws his head back, gasping. his free handâs clinging to the cushion until you hear the fabric tear.
âsweetheart,â he rasps, voice half-gone. âyou keep making me cum like this, iâm gonna go fucking crazy.â
but you know he's not done.
because next thing you know, youâre flipped onto your back. heâs yanking his pants and ruined boxers off, his dick still semi-hard, glistening, still fucking leaking like his body doesnât understand itâs supposed to stop.
and thenâhe shows you the mess. holds up his boxers like evidence.
âthis is a humiliation ritual,â he deadpans. or tries to. the corner of his mouth betrays him first. even more when you laugh and blush about it, because fuck, you love this man.
his boxers are, indeed, all stained white, soaked through. âno one's gonna take me seriously if they find my boxers like this, are they?â he asks, dropping his voice, leaning closer to you as he pulls the rest of your clothes off.
you grin. âi guess not.â
âoh, you're feeling bold now?â he smiles. kissing down your stomach and tugging your panties down with greedy, shaky fingers. âwanna see how bold you feel after this.â
clark being so big you have a belly bulge every time he gets inside you đ”âđ«đ”âđ«
warnings: smut (mdni), pwp, feral!clark !!!!! fem!reader, size kink, bulge kink, little bit of dumbification, belly bulge.
âg-god,â he can't help but stare at the obscene bulge every time he bottoms out. clarkâs a missionary lover through and through. partly âcause he needs to see your face while he's fucking you good.
to keep eye contact with you while your lashes flutter. because yeah, he's got a big, veiny cock. and it reaches places you didn't know could be reached before. and it hits your g-spot over and over again so precisely that it wrecks you until your vision goes blurry and the sheets get ruined when your juices gush out without warning.
but no, he's a true missionary lover âcause he gets to see and feel how his dick moves inside you. gets to press your hand right to the bulge in your belly and whisper, âyou feel me, sweetheart?â like heâs not already rearranging your guts. like it's even possible for you not to feel it.
his big, warm, heavy hand covers yours. and he's so still. not even moving yet. just stretching you out and feeling you clench around him.
you nod, barely, âcause you're already dizzy. he thrusts once, slow and deep and mean, and you moan like itâs the only thing you know how to do.
âc-clarkââs soâs'fuckinâ deep,â you whimper, slurred and shaky.
he kisses your flushed, sweaty cheek, gentle even with that monstrous cock buried inside you.
âi know, baby,â he groans right against your lips before kissing your swollen bottom one. âfeels good, huh? you like that?â
you nod again. you have to nod. heâs leaking inside you already, and your brain is melting into something warm and dumb and dripping. and heâs still watching you like you're the only thing in the world.
he's trying to be polite. he swears. but it's so hard when youâre squeezing him like this. when youâre wrapped around him so tight it makes his fingers twitch on your belly.
he kisses you again, slower now, but his hips shift just a little andâfuckfuckfuckâyou clench so hard around him it knocks the air right outta your lungs.
you gasp. âc-clarkâbabyâwait, wait, i c-canâtâcan'tââ
âyou can,â he says, voice molten, lips brushing yours. âtakinâ me so good, sweetheart. so fuckinâ perfect fâ me.â
and then he grinds. rolls his hips forward, like heâs trying to etch himself into your body, like heâs not already kissing your goddamn diaphragm from the inside.
the bulge in your belly moves. you feel it drag under your palm, slick skin stretched taut beneath your joined hands.
âoh my godââ
âi know,â he breathes, kissing your jaw, your neck, the corner of your mouth. âso tight for me,â his teeth scrape over your throat. âcould stay like this all fuckin night.â
you wiggle your hips, try to chase friction, try to make him move, and he growls and grabs your hips in those massive hands.
âyou keep doing that,â he warns, low and rough against your neck, âand you won't be walkinâ âtil next week.â
you do it again anyway, hips tilting just slightly, greedy little thing that you are, because the pressure is maddening. you need him to fuck you now, you need that delicious stretch to turn into that brutal, devastating grind thatâll have you melting all over him in seconds.
clark hisses through his teeth. âjesus, baby,â he pulls out just a littleâjust enough for the fat head of his cock to kiss your entranceâ then slams back in with a sharp, heavy thrust that knocks a sob from your throat.
you arch. you keen. your nails dig into his back, your thighs trembling around his waist.
âthere she is,â he groans. âthat's mâgirl. look at youâlook how full you are.â he thrusts again, harder this time, and the sound it makesâthe wet, filthy slap of skin on skinâechoes through the room.
youâre shaking now. you feel slick dripping down your thighs, soaked with both of you. your moans are all breath and broken vowels nowââah, ah, fuck, pleaseââ
âi got you,â clark pants, fucking into you slow and deep and so insanely good your eyes roll back. âgonna cum for me, baby. always do. this pretty pussy just canât help it, can she?â
you donât even answer. you canât. your hands are shaking, your thighs clamping around his hips, and your belly tightens like a rubber band about to snap-snap-snapâ
and then it does. you cum hardâharder than you knew you couldâ âclark! ohmyâ fuckfuckfuck.â
he keeps fucking you through it. keeps cooing soft praise against your mouth. âthatâs it, honey, that's it. ride it out. so beautiful like this, so good for me.â
youâre still twitching around him when he finally lets goâgroans so deep, so fucked-out it makes your toes curlâand spills inside you in hot, heavy pulses. his whole body shudders with it, hips grinding down until heâs empty, spent, tucked deep inside where he belongs.
Superman can hear you moan -C.K
Synopsis: You didnât think Clark could hear you moaning his name while your fingers were buried deep between your thighsâuntil he knocked on your door and proved just how hard it was to ignore. Turns out Superman has super hearing⊠and zero self-control when you beg for him out loud.
cw: Unprotected sex, oral (f receiving). Creampie. Fingering. Mutual masturbation. Voice kink. Riding. Dominance/power play. Slight breeding kink. Possessive Clark. super strength use (light). Exhibitionism implications (he can hear you anywhere).Â
Metropolis rent was hell.
It was supposed to be just a financial arrangementâtwo broke twenty-somethings sharing a halfway decent apartment. You met him at some friend's birthday dinner and hit it off over cheap wine and sarcastic commentary about everyone else there. A month later, you were hauling your mattress into a shared two-bedroom.
The first few weeks were shockingly chill. You never really pried into his businessâeven when he vanished at weird hours or came back with tousled hair and a faint scorch mark on his flannel. You knew. Of course you knew. You werenât an idiot. But you didnât ask.
What he didnât tell you? That he had super fucking hearing.
Scratch thatâyou had no fucking idea he could hear everything. The soft, wet glide of your fingers. The hitch of your breath. The whisper of âfuck, Clarkâ that slipped out before you even realized it.
So when you were tossing in bed one night, too restless to sleep, thoughts swirling with everything but restâmaybe it was the way Clark had walked out of the bathroom earlier with a towel slung so low you could see the V of his hips, wet curls dripping onto his shouldersâyouâd let your hand drift under the hem of your sleep shirt.
It started soft. Lazy. Gentle. Just trying to calm your body enough to sleep. But your mind wandered. Images of Clark. His mouth. His hands. The way he said your name in that gravelly, sleepy voice when you passed him a mug of coffee in the mornings. Before you knew it, your fingers were slick, breath quick, teeth buried in your lower lip as your thighs squeezed together.
And Clark? Clark was two rooms away, jaw clenched so tight he thought he might crack a molar.
Heâd heard everything. The soft gasp when you found that perfect rhythm. The quiet, desperate whimper of his name.
He gave you ten minutes. Ten excruciating minutes. But when you whimpered againâso fucking sweet and breathless, âGod, ClarkâŠââhe lost it.